And So Death Exclaimed
by FirenzeFuomo
Summary: Tyrion notices Jaime giving special attention to somebody, and it pikes his curiosity. Some spoilers for season eight are in this fic.


Sharp was the wind, and sharper were the tongues of the people. As bitter as their home, the Northerners of Winterfell held true to their reputation of distrust. How could they not? thought Tyrion. They'd been betrayed far more than once, and at the hands of not only Tyrion's southerner peoples, but his very own family. Despite having mess spat at him in the dusk, still he could not find it within himself to be bothered. A weird thing, he pondered as he walked the courtyard, passing by many Northerners too busy in their task to pay him any mind. A weird thing, because once, so much as a twisted look from a person would have set his chest tight with anger. Usually, it was then because of his impishness; both physically and metaphorically.

Had he grown? Matured, even? Or was it more because after everything his life had accumulated to, such things were no longer of importance to him. His mind betrayed him as it drifted to the image of Shae's fingers stilling in the corner of his eyesight.

Nearly slapping himself, Tyrion shook his head and focused on the brownish snow beneath his feet, and at the places it bunched up at workstations and gatherings of people. A breeze funneled into the courtyard and he lifted his head to greet it.

He noticed his brother leaning against the walls of the fort above him, gazing off beyond the fortress. Only the top of his scrappy hair was visible to Tyrion, yet still, he knew it was his brother. Tyrion blinked a few times, a distant smile crossing his face. How the two of them ended up here, together, would forever be a mystery to him. He made off to the steps to join the Lion of House Lannister, or whatever remained of him.

As he climbed, Jaime came more into view, his appearance so disparant than how Tyrion had always known him that he could have been a Northerner himself - if it wasn't for that glimmering golden hand. He was absently rubbing at the base of it, his forearm likely pulsing with the winds of winter.

"Why don't you take that damned thing off," asked Tyrion as he stood beside him, his height granting him just enough leverage to see past the divets in the wall. The Battle of Winterfell was raging below them, without the enemy. Men's swords clashed as they practiced; roves of dirt flung through the air as trenches were manically dug; hands and fingers gestured towards the treeline as the military leaders strategized their victory.

Though surprised by his brother's sudden appearance, Jaime did nothing more than look down at Tyrion and give him a soft smile and a chuckle. Curse it, thought Tyrion. The impishness in him, allied with the younger brother in him, had almost wanted Jaime to jump at his arrival. He never could scare Jaime, no matter how many times he tried as both a child and a grown man.

"If I didn't wear the hand, who would stare me down with hate in their faces?" The words were nearly harsh, but his tone was no such thing.

"You too, hmm?"

"Can't say I blame them."

"Can't say I do either."

Jaime had only offered him the initial glance. His eyes were set once more at the battle below them. Though, Tyrion newly noticed with his mild annoyance that Jaime wasn't more interested in him, his brother wasn't so inquired with the men below. Tyrion's eyes narrowed as he looked back at Jaime, followed his eyeline, went back to Jaime, and checked it again. Yes, confirmed Tyrion. Jaime wasn't watching the men at all. He was rather rapt with the one woman.

Jaime could never be startled, and Tyrion could never be shocked. This was known for them both. But Tyrion's eyes had widened and his mouth was clamped shut. Tension danced in the lines in his forehead. He slowly took his eyes off the woman and looked up at Jaime's face.

He couldn't be dazed by the fact that Jaime was observing her. This was simple, innocent enough. Setting aside the fact that the woman had single-handedly saved his life only this morning, but she and he had known each other for some time, and in very curious circumstances. Bonds are formed in less odious experiences, though Tyrion always thought of theirs as an odd one anyway. Still, Jaime came back to King's Landing those years ago thinner than he ever was, one hand lighter, leading a woman so tall Tyrion nearly fell over when first meeting her. And the woman, Tyrion knew immediately, had seen brighter days. The darkness beneath her eyes and the budding infection at her collarbone were only the preface to such a conclusion. Cersei had said something nasty to her, of course. Blood was still crusted around the woman's neck, yet the queen mother had wanted to draw more. Tyrion had felt his hatred for his sister flare. But that was a lifetime ago, when things were so foreign it may as well have been another world.

No, what shocked Tyrion was not that his brother was looking at the woman, but rather the look on his brother's face as he did. His expression was soft, his eyes blinking slower than a blink ought to be, the lines at the corners of his face coming together naturally. What made his eyes look the way they did, Tyrion wasn't sure, but it was as though they held an expression themselves. Jaime looked at the woman with not just absolute fondness, but almost desire.

Even more stunting was that the desire was far, far different than the desire of the average man, outside the realm for the usual definition. It was a desire made out of of genuineness, and purity. A desire for something important to him that he did not have.

"You're staring, you know." When faced with shock, Tyrion often said things without first thinking. Jaime's trance was broken, and his expression practically sputtered as he looked down at him.

"What?"

"I said you're staring."

Jaime blinked down at him, then looked back out beyond the walls.

"I'm spectating," he said back, and Tyrion thought he heard a ribbon of defensiveness.

"Is that what you call it?"

"What are you on about, Tyrion?"

Tyrion shrugged, though Jaime likely didn't see. Though staring once more, that previous softness had been replaced by a far more usual expression. Casual, average, not out of place. Tyrion wondered if Jaime even knew that he was doing it.

With the astonishment faded, Tyrion's head cleared and he began to explore different ways to go about the subject. Frankly, he should let it go, and he knew this. But oh, was his curiosity overcoming his cleverness. Still, he did not wish to disrupt the changes Jaime was discovering within himself. He only wanted to know more about it.

He remained silent for a minutes, allowing them both to listen to the sounds of clanging metals and the seething earth as it was dug into. The voices blended together like the sound of distant insects, wings buzzing in tune to drown out any single words. It was almost a calming experience, one that Tyrion welcomed despite his strategy to pull information from his brother, who was now taking intervals from his leering to actually watch the rest of the many below.

"She's leading the left flank, you know." A strategically bold move if there ever was one, but the way Jaime's face changed at the words gave Tyrion more information than he was prepared to receive.

"Who?" demanded Jaime. Written on his face was thinly veiled, but very real, fear. It almost made Tyrion feel downright guilty for saying it, though he reasoned Jaime ought to hear it sooner rather than see it as the battle came.

"Lady Brienne," Tyrion answered with a nod of his head, gesturing towards the woman below. She was critiquing two young men on their sparring match, one of whom being Pod. His eyes lingered on the boy for a moment, impressed by his visible growth. He was a man lean, and his arm held the sword confidently. Jaime's silence had Tyrion turn back to face him. His brother's eyebrows were drawn together.

"Is she?" he asked, having wrangled his visible reaction but still anchored by the news.

"She is. We had a council yesterday, before you arrived. One of Daenerys' men is leading the right. A number of other battle related decisions were made, as people do when faced with such a thing."

Jaime sighed abruptly, and when he looked back at her, he looked at her despondently.

"You worry for her," Tyrion stated. At first Jaime did not respond, and Tyrion wondered if he would. He wondered it Jaime's imagination took her to the frontlines of the battle, sword to sword with an undead man, two, or three. That's what Tyrion's mind would do, in King's Landing. Imagine her with his father's hands around her throat, or a noose around her neck, or her body dead in his bed with the word _whore_ written across her cheeks. The imagination is not kind to a man who finds such significance in a woman.

"Yes." A shade quieter was the voice that finally answered.

_You love her,_ Tyrion wished to say.

"What does she mean to you?" he said instead. Jaime's eyes fell down to stare at the rock of the walls in front of them, contemplating the question. Perhaps it was too direct, thought Tyrion. Perhaps he'd made a mistake in his plan to question Jaime about this woman.

"Something important," Jaime finally said. After several beats, he added, "We've been friends for a long time, after all."

"Friends?" inquired Tyrion. "I never thought you had friends, besides me, and, well, Cersei. I'm not sure if anyone ever told you, but you weren't well liked. At least not among the people who knew you."

Jaime smiled then, and Tyrion didn't feel so rotten for making Jaime see this woman dead in his mind.

"The rest of the Seven Kingdoms seemed to like me, however. That can't be overlooked, can it? Apparently I was named the greatest swordsman in the realm."

Tyrion chuckled genuinely, and Jaime did too.

"And who on earth told you that?" asked Tyrion with a tease. Of course he'd heard the same spoils, but he'd imagined it was only within the capital that people were bribed to say such things. Jaime lifted his chin as a way of direction.

"She did, actually."

Another shock to Tyrion, albeit smaller than his previous.

"Lady Brienne of Tarth called you the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms?" he asked incredulously. The woman was impressive to say the least, and her skill was no secret. She'd defeated the bloody Hound for mother's sake, and she absolutely did not strike Tyrion as the appeasing type.

"Gods, no," laughed Jaime. "She called me pathetic, actually. Slow, and predictable." On his face was a smile.

"Oh. Well, that's not very nice of her, is it?"

His brother shrugged.

"We weren't very nice to each other in those days."

"And yet here you are, saving one another's lives. Poetic."

"Cruel."

Tyrion looked to his brother.

"It's cruel," Jaime explained, "for the universe to make you care for someone just to have them face certain death." It seemed an admission even to Jaime, and his face drew together as he processed the words he'd just said.

"She likely thought the same this morning," Tyrion mentioned, and something changed in Jaime's eyes. "Yet here you are, not dead."

"She doesn't…" started Jaime, thinking aloud before his thoughts caught up with him. Tyrion raised his brow.

"She doesn't...what? Care for you? I didn't take you for a fool, Jaime, of course she does. That's one of the quietest, shelled up creatures I've ever met, and she stood before a room of rather important people, stared down perhaps the most powerful person in Westeros, if not the world, and said you were worth living. The man who killed her queen's father, she said, should fight at her side. Tell me she doesn't care for you."

"Well of course she does, I know that, I just meant...well, I...I'm not sure what I meant."

Tyrion sighed deeply and shook his head. Jaime's tone changed at this.

"What?"

"You, Jaime."

"What, then? Spit it out."

"You're just so blind to yourself, sometimes. It's astounding."

"Tyrion, I ask again, what are you on about?"

Tyrion bit his lip, wondering if he ought to take this all the way as he clearly wished to. He shrugged, mostly to himself, and committed to it. They were all going to die tomorrow anyhow, Jaime ought to know before then, hadn't he?

"You wanted to say, 'she doesn't care for me the way I do for her'."

Jaime's mouth fell open.

"Sorry?"

"You love her."

Jaime took a step backwards, as though the statement had physically struck him.

"Jaime," continued Tyrion gently, but still with vigor. "You gave that woman quarters in the bloody castle, when you certainly did not have to had she been nothing more than an obligation to you. You gave her that armor, I know you did, though you never told anyone of it. You, The Lion of House Lannister, The King Slayer, The Golden Child, walked the gardens with _her_, who was, by every right, nobody. That sword on her hip, is a Lannister sword."

Jaime said nothing, but only stared down at his brother in stupor. In fact, he almost seemed irate, angry, but shocked into silence nonetheless.

"I saw the both of you in the Dragon's Pit," Tyrion said. "I saw her not only looking at you, but you looking at her as well. I was in that Pit too, Jaime, your brother who you had barely seen in years, but it was that woman you were so concerned with. I don't know when she became something to you, brother, and perhaps you don't know either, in fact I reckon you don't. But she means far more to you than you could have ever guessed."

Jaime's mouth closed. His face was quite unreadable.

"Jaime," Tyrion implored. "You do love her."

"I shouldn't," Jaime said far quicker than Tyrion had been expecting, as though the words were waiting at the gates of his lips.

"Jaime-"

"I used to think I shouldn't because she was beneath me. That she wasn't nearly attractive enough for me to have such fondness of her, that her family name was so benign for my tongue to even say. She was nothing compared to Cersei. That's all I ever told myself whenever I'd see her and feel it."

Now, Tyrion was quiet. This admission, far more enriched than he'd expected, was coming out of Jaime like a wave.

"Now, I know it's true because I am beneath her. A broken man, a villainous one. Of all the things I've done, how could I ever think I could be with her? I shouldn't love her, Tyrion. I shouldn't."

Jaime's fierce eyes looked out beyond the wall, seeking her out like a light in a dark forest. His voice was a whisper that was more a realization than a statement.

"But Gods," the fog of his breath puffed out from his lips, "I do."

Tyrion took a few steps closer to his brother.

"Jaime, you've done everything right by her. Besides, love is never fair, is it? It doesn't come to those who deserve it, and it doesn't come to those that don't. It just comes, and it sticks with us like stitching on cloth. You've said yourself that you're not the man you once were. So don't let that old version of you hold you back from something good. Because brother, you and I...we haven't had much good in this life. And she…"

Tyrion smiled to himself as he realized the truth in his words.

"She is good, Jaime."

And she was. If they survived this night, if next day, the day after...Tyrion hoped Jaime would confront the woman. He was certain the woman loved him back, afterall. They could find happiness in each other.

"This is a rare thing to come by, Jaime," Tyrion lamented as he found himself to be the one staring at Brienne of Tarth. "Don't poison it with whatever turmoil boils within your brain."

He blinked and looked down at his feet, covered in soiled snow. The day was frighteningly cold, but it did not bother him. He turned and walked towards the steps, back the way he had come some time ago to have a simple chat with his brother. How plans change.

"Tyrion…"

Tyrion turned, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Who ordered her to be commander of the left flank?"

A sad smile crossed Tyrion's face, though it did not reach his eyes.

"She volunteered."

Jaime's face changed then. He'd chosen wrong, Tyrion knew. He'd chosen a woman too brave, too noble, too honest and honorable, to love. An easier choice would have been someone far more average, someone whose life was more precious to them. But then, Tyrion mused, you do not choose who you love. He sighed for what seemed to be the hundredth time as he walked down the steps, praying to nobody that the woman would make it through the night, as would his brother, and something could blossom on the steps of Death and his company.


End file.
